8. Saar
Chapter 8
Saar
Celeste
Merde. I thought you were announcing next week.
Lily
Congratulations, I guess (wink emoji)
Cora
What did I miss?
Lily
Saar is officially engaged.
Cora
How did your brothers take it?
I smile and stretch my arms above my head, and Pitt and Clooney jump from my legs, disturbed by the sudden movement.
I swear that after two weeks here, I can understand their mewing. Right now, they both told me to go fuck myself for interrupting their slumber. Grumpy cats.
But I smile away. Because I slept. I slept. I slept for… I search for my phone, padding the floor beside Cora’s sofa.
Five p.m.?
Jesus, I was so lulled by the drive from the restaurant that I fell asleep the minute Corm left. And a bit in his car.
Why did he need to accompany me to the door? That man is so annoying. I could practically smell his judgment of Cora’s place.
Asshole.
Are you having a superhero fantasy about me, Saar?
You wish.
I actually do, The Morrigan.
That charged exchange turned my blood to molten honey. God, I hate the impact he has on me. When he leaned in to whisper in my ear after his late arrival at the restaurant, my mind went blank, completely overwhelmed by the tingling of my skin and the fluttering in my stomach.
Also, why was he late? That’s my thing. Not that that is anything to be proud of, but still. It’s freaking annoying to be on the other side of that particular bad habit.
The good mood from my needed sleep evaporates as I replay our date. I wish he wasn’t so… so… him.
There were moments when I forgot my mask, and he latched onto those moments with his gaze, making me want to share with him. When his smirks disappear, it’s like his gaze alone turns the temperature in the room up by several degrees.
I clutch the phone to my chest and enjoy the bliss of rested body and mind, minus the thoughts wandering to last night. Hopefully, I broke the weird insomnia cycle.
My phone vibrates in my hand, and I check the screen. Finn.
“What’s up?” I sit up, smiling. I’m met with silence, and my heart rate spikes immediately. Shit, did something bad happen? “Finn? Is everything okay?”
He sighs, and I hear Paris whispering something. “Is it true?”
I saunter to the kitchen in search of coffee. “Is what true?”
Finn growls. “What the fuck, Bambi? Cormac fucking Quinn?”
I freeze. What does he know? What is he talking about?
When I say nothing, Finn snorts. “I guess congratulations are in order, but somehow I can’t fucking find the joy in the announcement.”
The morning—afternoon—bliss fades as quickly as a trending post on social media. How does Finn know? I don’t want to disappoint my brother, but I guess it’s too late for that.
“Are you mad?” My voice comes out hoarse. Shit, this is not the right question to ask.
Finn utters another heavy sigh. This one stretches over the phone line and falls right into my stomach like a lead ball.
“I’m shocked, I guess. Has he bullied you again somehow? Saar, you don’t have to do this. How did it even—”
“It’s not real,” I blurt out.
“I would hope so,” he snaps.
“Finn.” I hear Paris’s voice. She must be standing beside him, calming him, and probably worried about my sanity. Shit.
“Can we talk about this in person?” I hate how small my voice sounds.
“Where are you? I didn’t even know you were in New York. What’s going on, Saar?” There is concern in his voice.
A genuine concern.
For a teenage girl whom he found bleeding on the floor in the bathroom. A girl who grew up into a woman who still craves his attention. Who still craves to be seen.
For a woman who is an adult now and should stand up for herself.
“Look, Finn, I’m okay. Everything is fine. Why don’t we have dinner together, perhaps with Cal as well, so I don’t have to explain twice?”
‘Not that I owe you an explanation’ is on my tongue, but I swallow the words, because I don’t really have the moral ground to suggest that. He assumed something all those years ago, and I never corrected him.
My lie impacted his life two years ago when he acted on his misplaced hatred, and it almost cost him his wife, so I owe him an explanation at least.
“Where are you?” he growls again.
“I’m staying at my friend Cora’s before I move in with Corm.” I shiver at the idea.
How did I end up here? Damn Maria for stealing from me. And my grandfather for setting up a trust fund like it was the eighteenth century.
Finn sighs. Again. How much of his disappointment can I take? “But you’re okay? Safe?”
“Yes, Finn, I’m okay. I’m sorry you found out… How did you find out?”
I put him on speaker so I can make my coffee. But I change my mind and open the fridge and take out a bottle of Chardonnay instead. It’s 5 p.m. already, after all.
“What do you mean, how did I find out? You and your fiancé issued a statement.” The word fiancé probably triggered his gag reflex.
I pour myself a generous glass. Fucking Quinn. He promised me a week. To adjust. To tell my brothers.
Why did I tell Celeste the real reason for the marriage? If I pretended the engagement story was real, I wouldn’t need to explain the money to my brothers. But with everything going on and with my insomniac brain, I didn’t think this through.
“I didn’t realize we were announcing today. I’ve been jetlagged, and I just… I finally slept well. I wanted to tell you first, but…”
“It’s okay, Bambi.” Another heavy sigh. “As long as you’re safe.”
I swallow around the lump in my throat. “I’m safe, Finn.” Moneyless. Jobless. And broken, but I think I am safe.
“I’ll talk to Cal, and we’ll have dinner this week. Sooner rather than later. And come visit your nephew.”
After we hang up I sit, staring at Cora’s black-and-white-checkered backsplash for I don’t know how long.
He promised me one week.
I check my phone and read through messages. Cal called me ten times. Jesus. Fucking Quinn. He promised me a week.
But what was I thinking? Trusting him? Asshole.
My watch says it’s almost six. I hope my fiancé is a workaholic, because I have no idea where he lives, but I know where he works. And I need to kill him.
“Excuse me, sir.” I smile at a young man who just left the coffee shop in the corner of the office building where Merged is located.
On his way to the turnstile, he turns and raises his eyebrows. “I know you…” He searches to connect the face with the name.
I giggle. “I get that a lot, but I’m not her.” I lie.
I don’t have an inflated ego to assume he knows who I am. I’ve just lived with my face plastered all over the world for twelve years.
He frowns and smiles. “You’re right. You look much better than that model. What’s her name?”
“Who cares?” I shrug. “I work upstairs, and I left my key card at my desk. I’ve been calling my colleagues, but everyone is gone. I need to be here tomorrow at six in the morning to prepare a boardroom, so I really need to recover my card.” I bat my eyelashes at him.
“They can help you at the front desk.” He beckons his head toward the long counter under the shiny sign listing all the companies in the building.
“I know, but they would also call my boss. I just started working here this week, and he’d get upset. He yelled at me three times today already. I can’t lose my job.”
Compassion covers his face. I knew we could bond over an asshole boss. He leans in and whispers, “Let me smuggle you in.” He winks. “We wouldn’t want you to lose the job.”
“Thank you.”
After he gets me a visitor’s pass, we enter the elevator together. As soon as the door closes, I step to the farthest corner. Shit, why are we the only two people in here?
He smiles at me through his eyelashes and doesn’t say anything while we ascend. He’s kind of cute. And normal. Just a normal guy who looks at me like I’m a normal girl.
I wonder what it would be like if I had a chance to even try something normal with someone normal. Will I ever? If I don’t work for a year or two, will people forget about me?
The idea grips my stomach in a vice-like hold. I’m so used to my own publicity that normal scares me. Why am I even thinking about it? Normal is not for me. Not for the next few months, anyway.
“I hope to see you around.” He holds the door when we arrive at my floor.
I smile at him and rush outside.
I step into the sleek reception area. The counter is shiny white and unoccupied. Fuck. I hope he’s here, because yelling at him over the phone would be highly anticlimactic.
There is a corridor to my left and one to my right. Should I just walk around and call his name? I chuckle at the idea.
“Saar?” Roxy, holding several folders to her chest, appears.
I met her once, at Caleb’s Christmas vow renewal, and I liked her instantly. She’s a no-nonsense woman who puts her bosses in line without a worry in the world.
“Roxy, hi.”
She marches to me, frowning. “Do I want to know how you got up here?”
I bite my bottom lip. “No.”
“Are you here for Cal?”
My eyes widen. “Shit. Is he here?”
She giggles. “I think so. Are you here for the Asshole?”
My eyes widen even more. Is she calling her boss an asshole openly? “Yes?”
“Does he know you’re here?”
I want to lie, just like I lied downstairs, but something tells me Roxy’s bullshit radar is precisely calibrated on account of working for the Merged founders.
“No, he doesn’t. I wanted to surprise him.” I don’t know if she knows her boss’s engagement is a sham.
Her grin is naughty. She probably knows more rather than less. “Let me show you his office, and no worries, Cal’s is on the opposite side of this floor. And they are both in a timeout, so I doubt you’d run into him.”
“A timeout?” I follow her fast steps down the corridor lined with glass-wall offices and cubicles.
“Your brother cracked your fiancé’s lip. The latter reciprocated with a bruised chin.” The condemnation is palpable in her tone. “What can I tell you, good times.”
“Shit,” I mutter.
“Larissa, is Corm available?” Roxy asks a middle-aged woman behind another white, sleek desk. I guess that’s Corm’s assistant.
“Is he ever?” Larissa rolls her eyes. I like her.
“This is his fiancée, Saar. You should give her your number, so she can organize her future husband’s agenda. I’m sure he’d love that.” Roxy leans against the counter.
Larissa chuckles. “Nice to meet you, Saar. Don’t listen to this crazy woman. She is pissed at him, but I know my place. I’m here to protect his agenda.”
Roxy snorts. “Well, Saar, this is as far as I could get you. See you later.”
I stare at the solid wooden door in front of me.
“He’s on a call.” Larissa stands up, eyeing me like I just delivered anthrax to her boss. He’d deserve it.
“Is he?” I tilt my head, challenging her.
“You’re welcome to wait, but it might take an hour. He just started.” Larissa points to a single chair by the door and sits back behind her desk.
The chair looks lonely and pathetic. Just looking at it, I feel like Corm is winning. Larissa’s fingers run over her keyboard expertly while I hover beside her desk, filled with indecision.
I look around, but there is no other seat. “Look, Larissa, clearly you’re great at your job, but I need five minutes with Corm.”
“If he wants those five minutes with you, he’ll let me know.”
I jerk my head back. “He knows I’m here?”
She continues typing, giving me only a slight nod. Before I can ask her more, Corm’s office door swings open, and he gestures me in.
I have a hard time containing my smile when I see his swollen lips. I don’t condone violence, but seeing this man in a state that is less than perfect is satisfying.
“What is the projection?” he barks, still on his call.
As I pass him, he moves, and my arm brushes his chest, or just his jacket, but regardless, an electric current runs down my spine. I snap my head to the side, shocked by my unwelcome reaction. Our gazes collide, and we remain frozen for a beat.
His expression isn’t friendly, but it’s not calculating and cold as usual. He holds my gaze like he did two years ago in his ridiculous hotel suite office. Like he can’t decide if I’m good or bad news, and it pisses him that he wants to find out.
Or I’m just projecting shit because I’m starving for attention. Fuck.
I want to step away, but it’s like my body craves the tingling in his presence that his slightest brush with my skin caused. I feel it all the way to my core. The unacceptable attraction scares me.
It takes all my strength to hold his gaze. I’m only marginally aware that Larissa is probably watching our weird stand-off.
Corm stares back at me. It’s unnerving. And somehow rewarding. What is it about his gaze that just takes me as a prisoner?
For a brief moment, or an equally brief conjecture of my imagination, I almost believe he enjoys having me in his orbit. Which also freaks me out.
A voice is droning on in his ear, but I don’t know if he’s listening. A small bruise colors his chin slightly around his swollen lip. I’ve never realized how well-defined his jaw is. God, the man is annoyingly handsome. My fingers itch to trace the wound.
Or to squeeze some lemon into it.
He raises his eyebrow impatiently, and I remember why I marched into his office.
After he closes the door, he gestures to a sofa in the corner and shoots a rapid fire of questions at the person on the other end of the line.
I ignore the offered seat. Instead, I look around trying to shake off my body’s reaction to his accidental proximity.
I don’t know what I expected, but I didn’t expect his office to be so bright. It’s modern and full of white and beige accents, with a spectacular view of Manhattan.
It’s also welcoming. Like his personality is the only offensive thing in this space. Like he landed in this office by accident and didn’t bother to redecorate it into the dark colors of his soul.
Without thinking much about it, I move around the place. The shelves to my left house books, binders, and two lonely photographs in simple black frames.
One is of his brother, Declan, scowling in a family portrait with two small children. I recall his wife left him.
Well, if he was scowling like that and his personality is similar to his brother’s, I don’t blame her. But leaving behind two children? Not even my mother is capable of that.
The other picture is of an elegant woman. Based on her features, she must be Corm’s mother. But there is no father. Were they divorced?
Corm’s father passed away last year. According to our engagement statement, his recent public indiscretions are related to that loss.
But then why wouldn’t he have a picture here? I turn to check his desk, and my gaze meets his. Cormac is scowling at me—and wow, he mastered that look way better than his brother.
“Are you looking for something?” he growls.
“A picture of your father,” I answer honestly before I remember we’re at war. Goddammit.
“Why are you here?” he snaps.
“What a warm welcome.” I give him a saccharine smile.
He cracks his neck. “I had the day from Hell, and I don’t need you adding to it.”
What a prick. “Maybe if you kept your word and didn’t behave like an asshole, your day would have been better.”
“What do you want, Saar? I’m not interested in your attitude.” He glares at me.
I’ve never realized how much tension radiates from his body. He may stand with his hands in his pockets, the picture of casual annoyance, but he’s vibrating with energy that is about to explode.
Is it just today, or was I so concerned with my own reactions to him that I didn’t notice before? And fuck, I hope I won’t be around when the volcano erupts.
I fold my arms over my chest, and his eyes drop to my cleavage. For some stupid reason, it makes me feel self-conscious.
I move my arms behind me and shove my hands into my jeans’ back pockets. And I hate him a bit more for making me cower like this.
“You jumped the gun, announcing the engagement, so don’t blame me for having to deal with my brother.”
He laughs humorlessly. “Believe me, sweetheart, your brother is the least of my problems, his little tantrum forgotten. I have a business to run here.”
“I hope you’re better at that than you are at the rest of humaning,” I quip.
He eats the distance between us, and I hate that I back up. My back hits the bookcase behind me.
“I swear to God, Saar…”
He doesn’t finish his threat, but his body crowds me in a way that is intimidating enough. Or it should be. Only I’m not scared. I’m so pissed at this man that no other emotion has room.
He smacks his hands on the shelf on each side of my head, caging me. He’s only an inch from me, but my body rejoices with such a visceral reaction that I barely swallow a gasp.
His cologne of pure masculinity and assholeness hits my nose, and I almost lean in to get a lungful.
“Well, we both know your word is worth shit, so I’m not afraid of your empty threats.” I’m tall, and yet I have to crane my neck.
“Pictures from our date are all over the internet. Cal saw them, so I only accelerated the process. I tried to call you, but you didn’t bother answering, sweetheart .”
He says the last word with so much disgust, I almost wish he drawled The Morrigan into my ear.
Wait? What? I don’t wish that.
“Whatever,” I snap, flustered. “You promised me autonomy, and yet you lead the show and disregard my needs or opinions, blindsiding me.”
“Again, it’s not my fault the pics were already out.” He growls, his breath fanning my skin.
Did he step closer? My breasts brush his chest with each breath. Or rather, each pant, because oxygen is in short supply, probably snatched by Quinn and his ego.
“Neither is it mine. It’s your PR handler, not mine.”
What is my point here? I can’t think when he crowds me like this. So why am I not pushing him away?
“Fair enough, but let’s be honest here. Neither of us thought about the staged photo op being a problem for your need to bend for your brothers.”
“I don’t bend for them,” I breathe out, much weaker than I’d like to. Goddammit.
He chuckles and trails his thumb from my temple, down my cheek, to my lips. He runs it across my bottom one, his eyes burning.
I swallow, so my tongue doesn’t dart out. My body got a free ticket today to defy my brain, apparently.
It’s like he’s a hunter and I’m his prey. He set his eyes on me, and I became a prisoner. There is heat in them, and also something ruthless and cold. But still captivating.
He leans in, his breath warm by my ear. “If history shows us anything, you’re not too keen to tell them the truth, so I’m sorry if I focus primarily on protecting my interests.”
I shiver. Not because he’s technically right, calling me out on my teenage failure. Or because he just confirmed he doesn’t give a shit about my feelings.
I tremble because the combination of his breath, his scent, and his proximity short-circuits my brain, momentarily erasing my hatred and replacing it with raw need.
And if I’m not mistaken, he is as affected as me. Judging by his growing erection against my lower belly. Jesus.
I open my mouth, but no words come out. His face is only an inch from mine, and this close, his burning gaze renders me speechless.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, the logical corner offers words like “back off”, “go to Hell,” or “the deal is off”.
In the reality of his office, his kingdom, his dominance, I’m not saying any of those thoughts.
And the sad part? It’s not because I need this marriage probably more than him.
It’s because his vicinity forges some incomprehensible intimacy. One that I apparently crave. We stand there in a silent duel, our chests heaving, my skin covered with goose bumps, my mind useless, and my core ignited.
I would be worried he could smell my inconvenient arousal, but judging by his boner, our bodies are not on board with our dislike for each other.
Hate sex?
His eyes sparkle with something dark. Can he read my mind? Did he really have the same idea as me?
We stare at each other, communicating with our blazing eyes only. I’m saying I wouldn’t be opposed, but it would mean nothing. He’s agreeing—well, in my mind he is.
I grab his lapels, not necessarily pulling him closer, just… I don’t know what… giving him consent? Am I?
His sight drops to my lips. He’s on board. Oh my God, we’re going to fuck against this bookcase.
“Mr. Quinn, your seven o’clock with Japan is about to start.” A female voice fills the room.
“Fuck,” Corm mutters and steps away.
I almost collapse, because I didn’t even realize how much was I leaning against him. I rush toward the door, not sparing him one look.
“Saar,” he calls out.
I turn around slowly. Is he going to suggest we pick up where we left off? Is the moment gone? Shit. I can’t decide.
“Yes.” Goddammit with the breathy voice.
He’s already behind his desk, typing on the keyboard, not even looking at me. “If you want your autonomy, don’t fucking schedule a relationship counseling through your wedding planner. Don’t control my time with your trivial mind games, and I will leave you alone.”